


Looking for the Good

by DestielsDestiny



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Charles Being Concerned, Charles in a Wheelchair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kinda?, Logan Comes Home, Logan Needs A Hug, M/M, Memories, Slash, Time Travel, Wheelchair Kink, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan wasn’t in love with Charles. Until he suddenly kind of was. Always had been. Logan feels this is the time to point out that time travel is rather confusing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for the Good

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [XavierineFest2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/XavierineFest2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> After Logan wakes up in the New Future, Charles helps him recover and reconcile both sets of memories. Including the memories of their relationship.
> 
> A/N: This is a bit unusual for me, so please let me know if it works even a little bit. All mistakes are mine. I own nothing.

Logan doesn’t remember if he ever found men attractive. He meets someone once with a Cajun accident thick enough to nail to a barn wall. He remembers it gave him a rather raging erection. 

He doesn’t remember if the voice was male or female though.

Still, he wakes up in paradise one morning and suddenly thinks Charles Xavier is the hottest damn think he’s ever seen. 

He remembers just enough to know that wasn’t always the case. 

00

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Charles’ voice is hushed, earnest, achingly familiar and achingly, sincerely new. 

Logan takes a deep breath, lets the words wash over him, and suddenly he can’t breathe. He suspects it has nothing to do with his completely honest response to the question. 

“Drowning.” Logan follows that ominous proclamation up by stumbling forward alarmingly, his hand ghosting out blindly for a support, any support. 

He finds the smooth contour of a wheelchair arm, aging fingers grasping his elbows firmly. 

“Logan. It’s alright Logan, I’m right here. It’s alright.” Unsurprisingly, that’s really not helping the drowning feeling. 

Logan’s vision greys out for a moment, everything murky and quiet and suffocating. It lasts long enough that he’s almost convinced himself that he never truly left that riverbed. 

A voice floats towards him, seeming to filter down through the flickering light at the surface of the darkness, caressing every swirling image it passes. Faces whip by fast enough that Logan thinks he would feel dizzy if that was possible while already feeling like he was floating. 

_Guns going off, explosions filtering through a dozen different forests, green and brown and red blowing past his face. Faces of young men, their eyes sightless and open. Faces of old men, frowning, laughing, toasting._

Champagne burning into his bones, his claws snapping under a dozen different boot heels. The flash of Jean’s red hair, the pretty streak of white in Rogue’s, a burning anger at an old man with an elegant hat.  
A snarling man who moved like a tiger, long nails and hard eyes. Raucous laughter, gun smoke, napalm in the morning. _Victor._

The soundless glide of wheels across old oak in the darkness. A voice asking him where he was going. Guiding him upwards, forwards. 

A serene smile, a ratty old bathrobe that really, really didn’t fit with it’s surroundings. _It’s alright Logan, it’s only me._

The flash of a sword or twelve, the burning heat of metal seared to the bone. The rattling of coins in a tray, the wrenching pain of a house hitting the ground, the sudden silence of an empty wheelchair in an empty room. 

The biggest shock of his life. The best moment he can remember. _Hello Logan._

_You’re not the only one with gifts._

_You’re going to have to be patient with me._ Family at last, at the end of the world. 

“Logan.” The voice is the same, smooth as old satin, deep as the ocean on a clear day, hot as that damn tea Charles loves so much and whoa, where had that come from. Logan jerks back to what he is beginning to suspect is actually reality now with a gasp and a rather undignified flail. 

He suspects though that it is always hard for a grown man to look dignified while sitting rather folded across the arms of a wheelchair and two suit clad knees. 

Still, sitting on Charles Xavier’s knee is startlingly comfortable. And alarmingly familiar, his brain distantly registers. “It’s alright Logan, everything is alright now.” 

Logan growls. Charles doesn’t flinch. 

“Chuck, I just woke up in the wrong future with half of my mind missing. Again. I think I happened to see Magneto outside gardening while I was busy discovering people who last time I checked had been dead for decades out in the down right shiny corridor out there. And I seem to have high jacked some guy’s head. Some guy who thinks an awful lot about kissing you. Would it be too much to ask for you to stop telling me it’s alright for just five minutes!?” Logan’s voice has risen to a truly alarming level by that point, but Charles continues to not looking in the least bit perturbed. 

He simply reaches out a hand and actually pats Logan on the head of all things, before somehow floating them both towards the study door. Logan refuses to acknowledge the startled yelp he lets out, his arms clutching at the shoulders of Charles’ smooth suit jacket, suddenly very aware that he still doesn’t like flying. 

Charles’ voice is dry enough to burn the moisture right out of the air. “Logan, as much as I know you detest this form of transportation, perhaps you would consent to releasing my shoulders just slightly while we adjourn to the kitchen to get you something to eat. I strongly suspect your legs are rather incapable of holding you up at the moment, and I am rather partial to having intact collar bones at my age.” Logan relaxes his grip on instinct, but keeps an arm firmly wound around Charles’ neck. That feels oddly familiar too. The thought it not quite alarming enough to make Logan move his arm even the barest inch. 

Charles sighs. “Hank and Erik designed this chair for my last birthday Logan, I highly doubt it would fall from the air even if the world was ending.” Which almost makes Logan fall out of his arms all together because his Professor was never that clueless or downright bad with people. 

But his Charles was. Logan hadn’t realized until that moment that there was a difference. 

They’ve somehow reached the kitchen by this point, the halls strangely deserted to Logan’s unseeing eyes, his mind in too much of a jumble of scattered thoughts and memories that feel strangely like his own but somehow not to observe the half hour mark on the clock and connect with the simple concept of they live in a school. 

Charles’ hand sets a truly hideous floral mug into Logan’s free hand, the fuschia daisies dancing out at his eyes in the muted natural light. “The table is in the wrong place.” Logan’s voice feels odd in his own ears, distant and tinny. 

Yet another sigh sounds somewhere behind his head. Logan is twisting around to see over his shoulder when a gentle hand settles two fingers against his temple, brushing the hair on his forehead with something very like a caress. 

Logan feels something settle in his brain, something else shake loose, and then the voice is back, like it never really left. And maybe it didn’t. 

“Let me show you what we found.” Logan closes his eyes on the whispered together echoing in his mind, memories resurfacing for the umpteenth time. 

_I may be able to help you find what you’ve lost. What was taken from you._

_Let me show you what we found._

Logan leans into the hand, his eyes sliding open, and lets Charles do just that. 

00  
_Logan remembers waking up at the bottom of a riverbed in Washington DC, watering choking from freshly regrown lungs._

 _He remembers meeting Charles Xavier for the first time, long hair and leather jacket and gaudy taste in shirts and all._

_He remembers Victor catching up with him in the 1980s, asking his little brother to come home._

_He remembers saying he already was._

_He remembers meaning every word._

_He remembers he still does._


End file.
